


The 144 Patients of Dr. Marcoh

by Griselda_Gimpel



Series: Rebuilding Ishval [5]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Animal Abuse, Background Slash, Canon - Manga, Canon Compliant, Canon Continuation, Canon-Typical Violence, Dentists, Dom/sub Undertones, Gen, Human Sacrifice, Implied/Referenced Sex, Ishbal | Ishval, Ishbalan Character(s) | Ishvalan Character(s), M/M, Nazis by Another Name, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Period-Typical Sexism, Post-Canon, Post-Canon Fix-It, Post-Promised Day, Sign Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-04
Updated: 2018-11-04
Packaged: 2019-08-17 14:48:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16518524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Griselda_Gimpel/pseuds/Griselda_Gimpel
Summary: Not all members of the Immortal Legion were destroyed, and Scar tasks Dr. Marcoh with restoring those that survived. The only challenge is that Dr. Marcoh has no idea how to do that.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Bart Kirchner is a former State Alchemist from a previous work in the series.

                Tim Marcoh awoke as he now did every morning – to the sound of Bart Kirchner kicking the frame of his bed. They occupied adjoining cells in Ishval’s only prison. Between them and around them was a solid, sandstone wall, but to the front of their cells was a set of bars that faced the newly added guard station, where two guards always kept watch. Each cell contained a bed, a toilet, a shower, a sink, and a bench.

                Rising from his bed, Marcoh washed and dressed himself, taking out a clean pair of clothes from the cupboard under his bed. He brushed his teeth and shaved. (He was allowed a razor for reasons of good behavior. Kirchner – known also as the Bone-Breaking Alchemist – was not.)

                Food arrived. It was oatmeal this morning. Marcoh thanked the guard for the bowl and began eating. Soon he would go to work for the day at the hospital. He worked six days out of the week. Early on it had been seven (as had been the case with everyone), but Mistress Shan – who ran the hospital – insisted he have one day off to avoid burn out. Marcoh hadn’t argued, but with the conviction and arrival of Kirchner, his days off weren’t very enjoyable. He sighed. He was serving a life sentence for his crimes. That meant he didn’t get to choose his roommate.

                As was ever the case, Kirchner was complaining over breakfast. “I don’t see why you get to go out and about during the day,” Kirchner said. “It’s not fair. Do you know how boring it is to be stuck up in a cell all day?”

                “Yes,” Marcoh said, “I do. And I’m not going out and about; I’m going to work at the hospital. For penance. You could do that, too.”

                “I don’t have anything to do penance for,” Kirchner retorted. “Just because Scar made you his bitch doesn’t mean I’m going to roll over on command.” Marcoh had found Kirchner to have a very unhealthy world view of gender roles, sex, interpersonal relationships, and really most things.

                Marcoh finished his oatmeal in a quick gulp. “I’ve finished my breakfast,” he told the guard and handed his bowl back. Then he opened his cell door to head to work. (There hadn’t ever been a need to install a lock on the door of Marcoh’s cell, and he intended to make sure there never was a reason. The same went for the special, alchemy-preventing restraints that Kirchner had to wear and Marcoh didn’t.)

                “Does Scar like it when you’re sucking his-“ Marcoh heard Kirchner shout at him as he left, but Marcoh was out of earshot before he could hear how the sentenced ended. He could imagine, though; Kirchner wasn’t very creative when it came to his insults and taunts.

                It was about a twenty minute walk to the hospital. At the entrance, Marcoh encountered a young woman he didn’t recognize. When she heard Marcoh approach, she turned to him with a start. He suspected that she was a fairly new arrival to Ishval. When the reconstruction project had first been announced plenty of Ishvalans were skeptical. After all, it was being championed by the Flame Alchemist; many suspected a trap. Major Miles and Scar’s involvement had changed many minds, but not everyone had returned their homeland immediately, so new arrivals still appeared every week.

                The young woman opened her mouth, and Marcoh saw that she had no teeth or tongue. She made a half-hearted attempt to sign to him, but gave up when she saw that he didn’t understand. She wasn’t the only one in Ishval with her condition. There had been a State Alchemist who’s official codename had been the Dental Alchemist but who had been informally known as the Tooth-Yanker. Marcoh had known him by reputation; he had been reprimanded repeatedly for _not_ killing his victims.

                He directed her to Dr. Hirsch, who was one of the other doctors at the facility. Unlike Marcoh, Dr. Hirsch knew the traditional sign language of Ishval. She handled all the patients who were non-verbal, whether due to the sadism of the Tooth-Yanker or another reason. While Dr. Hirsch would never call herself an alchemist, she had taught herself enough to be able to create new teeth for patients, and she had been given an award (presented by Major Miles) for her use of alchemy in creating and sanitizing feeding tubes and other medical equipment.

                Moving on, Marcoh met his two apprentices. There were a handful of other trained doctors at the hospital, and they all had at least a dozen apprentices each. Marcoh only had two because they were the only two who would have him.

                “Good morning,” he said in Ishvalan to Wei Shapiro. After Amestris had conquered and annexed Ishval, the Amestrians had made it law that every Ishvalan learn to speak Amestrian in school. However, back before the Civil War had broken out, Wei’s parents had moved to Xing (which they shared a joint love of), and Wei had been born and raised there. He spoke Xingese and Ishvalan, but he only knew a handful of words of Amestrian. (Wei had once told Marcoh that his Xingese upbringing was why he had chosen to apprentice under Marcoh. “It’s like everyone else has been through all this horrible shit,” he had said, “and here I am over in Xing where my biggest challenge in life was trying to get one of the clans to adopt me. When the reconstruction started, I realized that I wanted to help. And, well, you’re some kind of war criminal, right? So I figured I’d take you. I mean, someone had to, right?”)

                “Morning,” Marcoh heard, and turned to see his other apprentice, Jael Amsel. He greeted her, as well. She had been born and raised in Ishval and had fled to Xerxes with Mistress Shan during the genocide. She was his apprentice by necessity, not desire.

                “Master Ezekiel says that if I want to learn bio-alchemy, I’ll need to learn it from you,” Jael had said when she and Wei met Marcoh for the first time. Ezekiel Keystone was the name Scar had legally taken, and Jael always called him by that instead of “Scar”. She had continued, “So I’m here to learn everything I can from you so we’ll have our own doctors rather than having to rely on the likes of _you_.” It had been obvious that she didn’t care for Marcoh much, and he knew that he completely deserved it.

                “What do you want me to call you?” Marcoh had asked.  Ishvalan names were gifts from Ishvala, so sometimes honorifics or nicknames were used instead of a person’s given name. For instance, while Master Isaiah had readily shared him name with Marcoh, none of the others traveling with them had.

                “Jael Amsel,” she said, almost defiantly, “since we’re going to be working together. Is it true that when you met Master Ezekiel, you _begged_?”

                The question had caught Marcoh off guard. “Oh, um, yes, it’s true.”

                “And then you traveled with him?” That was an actual question, not a taunt.

                “Yes,” Marcoh had said, “I did his tattoos, actually, the ones on his left arm.” He had been bragging rather, but he was proud of the work he had done.

                Jael’s eyes had gone wide. “Really? He actually let you touch him? What was that like?”

                Marcoh had coughed. “Nerve-wracking, actually. I was terrified I was going to mess it up.”

                “He’s an amazing man, isn’t he?” Jael had said, a dreamy note in her voice.

                “Very much,” Marcoh had said, smiling. He had known that it hadn’t meant he and Jael were suddenly friends or anything, but he had been happy to find one topic that they were in accord on.

                “And I’m Wei Shapiro,” Wei had interrupted then, speaking Ishvalan, “and I have no idea what either of you have been saying for the past several minutes.”

                “Oh,” Marcoh had said, in his best (not very great) Ishvalan, “I understood that only so so and a little.” Master Isaiah – that was, Scar’s master – had started teaching Marcoh to speak Ishvalan in the months leading up to the Day of Reckoning, but there hadn’t been time for him to teach Marcoh everything.

                Jael had sighed. “I can play translator until you get better.” Thus it was that Marcoh always spoke Ishvalan at work. He was still far from perfectly fluent, but he was getting better with his tenses.

                Neither Jael nor Wei had the same medical training that Marcoh had received in his youth, but neither was starting from scratch there, either. Wei had just completed an undergraduate degree in Biology before he came to Ishval. Jael’s college education had been curtailed by the genocide, but she had a great deal of on hands training due to providing medical care to the survivors in Xerxes. As for alchemy, Wei had taken a few classes on the Purification Arts in college, while Jael had no alchemic background.

                “What are we doing today?” Jael asked, after the greetings were finished.

                “We’ve got a patient with a nasty infection in the leg, so we’ll be starting with that.”

                Marcoh, Jael, and Wei treated patients until lunch. Briggs soldiers brought rations, which today were sad looking cheese sandwiches with a lone, lackluster leaf of lettuce each. After they finished, they were about to leave the breakroom and return to work when they heard voices outside the door. It sounded like Mistress Shan and Scar had encountered each other.

                “What is that _thing_?” Mistress Shan was shouting.

                “Patients for Marcoh,” Scar growled.

                “Patient _s_?”

                “Yes.”

                “It looks like a single monstrosity to me – which I want out of my hospital right now!”

                “Oh, I hate it when they fight,” Jael whispered.

                “Me, too,” Marcoh said.

                Wei walked over and opened the door, revealing Mistress Shan, Scar, and an inhuman-looking entity. The entity was cloud white, almost emancipated, with a single, massive eye and no lower jaw. The entity was wearing Ishvalan robes and restraints. Scar kept a firm hand on the entity’s shoulder.

                “What in the name of the Heavenly Council?” Wei screamed after he opened the door.

                “That is a patient for me?” Marcoh asked, very much in agreement with Wei’s reaction.

                “Patient _s_ ,” Scar snapped in correction. “They were made into a member of the Immortal Legion. Sick Amestrian experiment. Armstrong says the body is artificial. Inside are Philosopher’s Stones. _Your_ handiwork.”

                “Oh god,” Marcoh said. “What do I need to do?”

                “Fix them,” Scar said. “The body is an artificial body controlled by Philosopher’s Stone. You can break apart a Stone, like you did with Envy. Your task is to make one body for each soul.”

                “I can’t break a break apart a Stone without killing the souls within!” Marcoh protested.

                “Figure it out,” Scar snapped.

                Marcoh’s dropped his gaze to the floor. “Yes, of course. I’ll do everything I can.”

                “Wait,” Jael broke in. “That thing is Ishvalan?’

                “Ishvalans,” Scar said. “There are multiple souls inside the body.”

                “And he did that?” Jael asked, jerking her thumb at Marcoh.

                “Yes,” Marcoh and Scar both said.

                “Okay, then I’m helping,” Jael said. She looked rather sick but also determined.

                “Wait, wait,” Wei broke in, “that things a Philosopher’s Stone?”

                “It’s a container for one or more Philosopher’s Stones,” Scar corrected.

                “And he did that?” Wei asked, pointing at Marcoh.

                “Yes,” Marcoh and Scar said again.

                Wei let out a whistle. “The Heavens preserve me. They weren’t joking when they said you were a war criminal.”

                “I had family that got sent to the camps,” Jael said softly, to no one in particular. “That thing could be- could be-“ She didn’t finish the sentence.

                “We should examine the patient,” Marcoh said, and then corrected himself. “I mean the patients. We should examine the patients.”

                “They aren’t terribly dangerous with the lower jaw removed,” Scar said, “but you will need to keep them restrained. But-“ Here Scar looked very pointedly at Marcoh. “-they are my Ishvalan brethren as well as your patients. You are to treat them with courteously and respect. If it came down to it, I’d prefer they eat you than you hurt it.”

                “Yes, I understand,” Marcoh said. He turned to Jael. “Let’s get them to an examination room.”

                “Hey, I’m helping, too,” Wei said, “I mean, I read the report on you. I knew what I was getting into before I signed on.”

                “Thank you, both of you,” Marcoh whispered to them as they walked their patients down the hall.

                “If you will please sit down in this chair,” Marcoh said to the patients as they arrived as their destination, “I’d like to examine you.”

                The patients responded by screaming incoherently. Jael and Wei eased the patients into the chair and gently restrained them while Marcoh performed his examination. It took him an hour to fully go over the patients’ body. He found where the Philosopher’s Stones had been inserted and took X-Rays of the part of the body where the Stones resided.

                Scar and Mistress Shan came by at that point, bickering about where the patients could stay while Marcoh, Jael, and Wei worked on them.

                “Have you found out anything?” Scar asked, breaking away from his argument with Mistress Shan.

                “Some,” Marcoh said.  “There are a dozen Stones inside this body. After I made my first Philosopher’s Stone, my team and I switched to a dozen sacrifices per Stone, which made for a more stable equation. What I mean is, there are 144 souls inside this body.”

                “Then you’ll need to make a 144 bodies,” Scar said. “Better bodies than that abomination, at that.”

                “I don’t-“ Marcoh started, but Scar interrupted him.

                “Figure it out. You did this. Now you’re going to undo it.”

                “I will,” Marcoh promised him, wishing he felt more confident at the chance of success. Scar was right. This was Marcoh’s responsibility to fix. He just had to figure out how to do it.

               


	2. Chapter 2

                The rest of Marcoh’s day was frustrating and at one point painful. The patients had slipped their restraints and grabbed Marcoh’s arm hard enough to bruise it before Jael and Wei were able to restrain them. Marcoh didn’t even think the patients knew who he was; their single eye never looked at anyone with anything approaching recognition. Of course, there were 144 souls crammed into a single body. It had to be torment. The lights went out, and Marcoh lay in bed, unable to sleep.

                “You awake?” he heard Kirchner call after a while.

                “Yes,” Marcoh said.

                “Thought so,” Kirchner said. “Usually, you snore.”

                Marcoh sighed. “Scar asked me to do something, and I disappointed him.” (Scar just didn’t know it yet. Marcoh would have to tell him tomorrow.)

                “What you do? Spit when he told you to swallow?”

                “Oh come off it, now. This is serious. Scar _saved_ me. I didn’t deserve- I need to be worthy of that.” Marcoh didn’t know why he bothered talking to Kirchner.

                Kirchner gave an unfriendly laugh. “Is that so? I thought you were all contrite and so the sand mongrels all loved you?”

                “Don’t call them that,” Marcoh snapped, “and they don’t. And you can’t just feel guilty; you have to make amends. Although _you_ could start by feeling guilty.”

                “I’ve got nothing to feel guilty about,” Kirchner replied haughtily.

                Marcoh sighed. He had heard enough about Kirchner’s trial to know that Kirchner was deluding himself, but Kirchner’s guilt wasn’t relevant at the moment; Marcoh’s was.

 

_Ten Years Ago…_

 

                It started – as much as anything can be said to start in one specific moment of time – with the conferences. There were seven in all, and Marcoh had been invited to the first one. Marcoh had been a State Alchemist for two years, and he was making a name for himself in the medical field. Far from Central City, the Civil War raged.

                There were hundreds of attendees at the first conference, which was entitled Ethics in Times of Crisis. They weren’t all State Alchemists or even all alchemists, but they were all from the learned class. There were doctors and professors and scientists. The conferences were being run by the State, and there was a promise of prestige and prosperity to every attendee for every conference they attended. Naturally, the conferences were by invitation only.

                The host introduced himself as Nigel Vance but insisted everyone call him “N.V.” He was younger than Marcoh, early to middle thirties, maybe, and he wore khaki colored slacks with a white dress shirt and a red and yellow striped tie. “Welcome, welcome,” he boomed to the attendees as they took their seats in front of the stage. “It’s such an honor to be in the presence of the best and brightest that we have in attendance today. For those of you who haven’t looked into the State Alchemist program, I’d encourage you to do so. They’ll be yearly bonus grant money per conference for every State Alchemist who completes them. The more conferences you finish, the more money you get.” There were murmurs of interest at that, and N.V. smiled.

                “Do we have to pass a test?” a voice called from the crowd, which caused N.V. to laugh.

                “Yes, yes,” N.V. said, “I’m afraid you do. We only want the best and brightest, now don’t we? We can get that nasty bit of business out of the way at the beginning, though. If you’ll look under your seat, you’ll find a clipboard with the test and a pencil. You have thirty minutes.”

                The questions weren’t especially difficult, and Marcoh finished early. This meant that he was able to watch as N.V. dragged a projector onto the stage and got it set up. After he was done, he called time, and assistants moved through the aisles, collecting the tests. When that was done, N.V. gestured to the projector, and Marcoh saw that a large screen had been rolled down.

                The lights in the room were dimmed, and N.V. started the footage. There were some gasps from the crowd as the footage began to play. Someone had filmed a state execution. The condemned – Marcoh guessed him to be Ishvalan based upon his brown skin and white hair – was led before a firing squad and summarily killed.

                “Now don’t go feeling too bad for the bastard,” N.V. assured the crowd, “he was a right monster. Killed thousands of innocent Amestrian babies. You know how those Ishvalans are. But this is a good introduction to the topic of this conference. We’re taught that killing is wrong, yes? But can anyone tell me that that man didn’t deserve to die? And with that, allow me to introduce the speaker for today’s conference.”

                It all happened so quickly that the speaker was on the stage before Marcoh had time to wonder why thousands of babies being murdered somehow hadn’t made the news or why N.V. spoke of Ishvalans as different and separate from Amestrians or whether anyone really ever deserved to die. And then the speaker was talking, so all half-formed questions left Marcoh’s mind so that he could focus on what the speaker was saying.

                The speaker spent the time until lunch dancing around his point. In fact, Marcoh didn’t think much of him as a speaker. There were statements about how the “ends justify the means” and “situational ethics” and “sacrifices in the time of war”, but speaker never quite came out and said what he was saying.

                Eventually, they broke for lunch, and Marcoh forgot all about the speaker. Lunch was lamb. Marcoh hadn’t had lamb since before the Civil War broke out, as the fighting had disrupted some of the grazing areas. The lamb was perfectly prepared, with mint and a hint of a berry Marcoh couldn’t define. Cherry, perhaps?

                “I didn’t care much for the speaker,” Marcoh heard a woman say. He would have responded in agreement, but his mouth was full of lamb. N.V. also heard.

                “You don’t have to stay,” he told the woman briskly.

                “What?” she asked, turning to him.

                “I’m saying maybe it’s best that you leave.”

                She glared at him for a moment and then snatched up her purse. “Fine!” she snapped. With that, she stormed out of the lunch area. N.V. turned to Marcoh, who swallowed the bite he had taken.

                “Did _you_ have anything to say?” N.V. asked accusingly.

                “Yes,” Marcoh answered. “This lamb is delicious.”

                N.V. smiled blazingly at him. “I’ll pass your compliments along to the cook. Chef Tony is an absolute wonder. We’re so lucky to have him. We’re lucky to have you, too, Dr. Marcoh. You did very well on the aptitude test. I so hope you’ll be able to attend all of the conferences.”

                “Me, too,” Marcoh assured him, thinking of all the money that had been promised to State Alchemists who made it all the way through the series. He could stomach an inept speaker to get there. And stomaching the lamb was no issue at all. He took another bite, savoring the flavor.  

                The rest of the conference was much of the same, although the speaker improved a bit, clearly stating at a few points sentences like “The same ethics don’t apply to the State” and “Some ethics can be disregard during times of crisis” and “Trying to apply universal ethics to your life will hinder your careers”. Marcoh nodded along as the speaker talked. After all, he reasoned, it was usually wrong to cut someone, but as a doctor, he often had to cut a patient in order to save the patient’s life. He barely noticed that the post-lunch audience was somewhat smaller than the pre-lunch audience.

                Marcoh was relieved when he received the invitation to the next conference, which he learned was entitled Genetics & Intelligence. That wasn’t his field of expertise, but he was excited for a chance to gain more knowledge.

                It was a different speaker for this conference, who dazzled the audience with facts and figures and charts. Marcoh learned that the speaker’s research was into the intelligence range of different races. He had compared people who were Amestrian to people who were Xingese to people who were Ishvalan to people who were Drachman. Marcoh itched to double check his methodology. The speaker had come to the bold claim that Amestrians were the most intelligent people, followed (in order), by the Xingese, Drachmans, and finally Ishvalans. Marcoh didn’t know if it was true or not, but the scientific method was all about repeatability. He decided to try to flag down the speaker at lunch to see if he could get a look at his research.

                However, at lunch Marcoh got distracted, as Chef Tony had prepared foie gras for the attendees.

                “What’s this?” a woman next to Marcoh asked.

                “Foie gras!” Marcoh informed her excitedly. He had only had it once before. “It’s made by force-feeding a goose until its liver becomes enlarged, which makes it delicious.”

                “That sounds horrible,” the woman said.

                “Only the simple-minded think that,” Marcoh retorted. “Geese don’t have a gag reflex, so they don’t mind at all.”

                The woman sniffed. “Well, seeing as I’m Amestrian on my mother’s side and Ishvalan on my father’s side, I suppose I must only be _average_ intelligence, at least according to that claptrap that speaker was sprouting.” Sarcasm oozed off her tone like the sauce off the foie gras.

                N.V. was walking by at that moment. In a smooth motion, he took the woman’s plate of foie gras away from her in one hand and ushered her out of the room with his other hand.

                “Come now, my dear,” Marcoh heard him say, “this conference and foie gras isn’t for the likes of _you_.”

                “You can keep it!” she snapped as she exited.

                Marcoh probably should have said something, rather than stand there uselessly, but his pride had been wounded, and by the time he got over himself, the moment to act was passed. Lunch ended, the conference resumed, and with all that had happened, Marcoh completely forgot about verifying that what the speaker was saying was true.

                The next conference was entitled The Science of Phrenology, and Marcoh had to look up what phrenology was. It was a new field of study and seemed a bit dubious, but he supposed he needed to hear both sides of the argument about it. The conference would be a good avenue to do that, and it would net him an increase of research funds, to boot. Not to mention the fabulous lunches Marcoh had come to expect from Chef Tony.

                Before the speaker came out, N.V. asked them all to answer a questionnaire. Marcoh examined the questions.

                _Do you support the death penalty?_

                Marcoh thought about it for a moment and then answered in the affirmative.

                _If so, do you support the death penalty for treason?_

                Marcoh answered in the affirmative, again.

                _Should criminals be forced to make repayment for their crimes?_

                That was also a yes. It seemed only right.

                _Would you support using criminals for experiments to further scientific knowledge?_

                That one was another yes.

                _Would you personally be comfortable using criminals for experiments to further scientific knowledge?_

                Marcoh answered yes on that one, as well. There was no point supporting something in the abstract but not the specific. Eventually, he reached the last question.

                _Is Führer President King Bradley the greatest, most bestest, most wonderful leader Amestris had ever had?_

                Marcoh chuckled as he answered in the affirmative. He wasn’t certain that “bestest” was actually a word, but it was clear what answer they were fishing for. At the time, Marcoh thought himself clever for answering “correctly”. Later, he’d hate him for being so naïve and arrogant.

                When everyone had finished with their questionnaire, N.V. introduced the speaker, who spent the first half of the conference explaining the basics of phrenology to the uninitiated.

                “This is bullshit,” Marcoh heard a man next to him say loudly in the middle of the speaker’s explanation. He was close enough for Marcoh to see Alan Rogers written on his nametag. N.V. heard as well, but to Marcoh’s surprise, Rogers was not asked to leave.

                Eventually, they broke for lunch, which was turtle soup. “We cooked the turtles in their own shells,” N.V. explained as Marcoh took his bowl. The soup was delicious. Marcoh had tried to have turtle soup once before, only to learn later that the restaurant had actually been serving mock turtle soup but charging customers for the real stuff. Now, having had actual turtle soup, Marcoh could taste that there was no comparison between the two.

                Marcoh didn’t like to think about what happened after lunch. After they had all been seated, two soldiers dragged an Ishvalan prisoner on stage. His hands were bound, and his mouth was gagged. There was some uncomfortable shuffling among the attendees.

                “Oh, don’t go feeling bad for him,” N.V. said to the crowd. “Not only is he guilty of treason – he’ll be executed right after this conference – but he’s a child molester. I wouldn’t think any of the good people here today are child molester sympathizers, are they?” The condemned man began shaking his head, proclaiming his innocence, which prompted N.V. to add, “He’s a liar, too.”

                There was a chorus of “no” and “of course not” from the crowd.

                N.V. continued, “Our esteemed speaker is slow returning from lunch, so why don’t we find a way to pass the time. What do you all think should be done to treasonous child molesters?”

                “Cuff his ear!” someone shouted from the crowd, and N.V. did so. Things got blurry for Marcoh for a bit after that, and he couldn’t remember quite what happened until he found N.V. pointing at him.

                “Well, Dr. Marcoh?” N.V. was asking him. “What should be done to him?”

                Marcoh looked around the crowd of attendees, as it meant not looking at the condemned man. There were only about a hundred attendees at this conference, and he realized that if he wanted to be at the next conference, he had to say something. Besides, he reasoned, the prisoner was a monster. He deserved it.

                “Oh, um, uh, stomp his foot?” Marcoh suggested, finally.

                However, before N.V. could do so, the man sitting next to Marcoh stood up in a fury. “This is sick!” he shouted, and Marcoh realized that not everyone in the crowd of attendees had provided suggestions of violence. “We only have your word that he’s guilty, and even if he is, no one deserves-“

                “You, gone,” N.V. said simply, cutting him off. As two more soldiers escorted the man next to Marcoh out, N.V. stomped on the condemned man’s foot. Marcoh looked at the soldiers in wonder. He hadn’t noted their arrival, but he saw now that there were numerous soldiers stationed around the room.

                The speaker came back then. He spent the rest of the lecture pointing to different spots on the condemned man’s face, explaining how such and such contour had led to his criminality. When the conference ended and the condemned man was led away to his execution, Marcoh was careful not to meet his eye. A few minutes later, he – and everyone else in attendance – pretended not to hear the sound of gunfire as the execution was carried out.

                Later – much later, when Marcoh was working at the Fifth Laboratory – he realized how much that that conference in particular had been a job interview. The State would hardly hire someone to perform ritual human sacrifice if they weren’t comfortable with a bit of aimless violence directed at a helpless prisoner.

                Marcoh wished later that he’d struggled more on whether or not to accept his invitation to the next conference. However, the truth was that by time he’d gotten the invitation, he’d already pushed the less savory aspects of the previous conference out of his mind. If the memory flitted across his mind, he would rebuke it with logic. He believed in the punishment of criminals and the death penalty, and thus he was able to rationalize what had occurred.

                There was another Ishvalan prisoner at the next conference, who was brought on after the speaker finished his introductory lecture. Marcoh was sitting up close this time, and he was relieved to see that she wasn’t in restraints, although there were still soldiers who escorted her onto the stage. N.V. explained that she was serving a sentence in prison for throwing a rock at a soldier.

                “Our volunteer today is here so that we can see the genetic defects that stem from her Ishvalan heritage,” the speaker explained.

                “Which means off with your clothes, ma’am,” N.V. said.

                There was a moment of hesitation. “And my daughter will be released from jail?” she asked.

                “She’s being sent home as we speak,” N.V. assured her, and the woman disrobed as instructed.

                The speaker began pointing to different parts on the woman’s body, explaining how she had such and such ailment. To Marcoh’s annoyance, a man in the audience wolf whistled at her. To Marcoh’s further annoyance, N.V. didn’t have _him_ thrown out. Marcoh was used to patients being nude – it came with being a doctor – but one was supposed to be _proper_ about it. Marcoh opened his mouth to say something to the man but then thought better of it. He wasn’t sure if saying something would get him thrown out, but he didn’t want to risk it.

                Eventually, they broke for lunch, which was veal.

                “We boiled the calves in their mother’s own milk,” N.V. explained as Marcoh tried his.

                “Is that what makes it so scrumptious?” Marcoh asked.

                “You’d have to ask Chef Tony,” N.V. said, “but I don’t believe he’d divulge his secrets. Anyway, I’m really glad to see you could make this conference, Dr. Marcoh. You have so much potential, and I’d hate to see it get squandered over some misplaced empathy for the scum of the earth.”

                “You don’t have anything to worry about,” Marcoh hastily assured him.

                The rest of the conference continued without incident. Marcoh wished her could say that he never saw the Ishvalan volunteer again, but that wouldn’t be true. He was fairly certain he encountered her later, when he was working at the Fifth Laboratory. She was one of the many people he put into a human transmutation circle and transmuted into a Philosopher’s Stone.

                Marcoh accepted the invitation to the next conference – The Role of Alchemy in Government – without hesitation. There were only about sixty people at the conference, and Marcoh learned from N.V.’s introduction that nearly all of them were alchemists, with about two thirds being State Alchemists, some having only gotten their license since the conferences had started.

                The speaker for the conference spoke pointedly about different scenarios, describing how State Alchemists should behave. Marcoh was surprised at the emphasis on State Alchemists carrying out executions on behalf of the State, but then again, complete obedience to the Führer President had been something he’d agreed to when he became a State Alchemist.

                When the first part of the conference ended and they broke for lunch, the attendees filed into the cafeteria to discover that there was no food. Each table contained an apparatus and what appeared to be cages covered with sheets. N.V. motioned for the attention of the crowd and then explained.

                “Lunch is going to be a little different today. Chef Tony had the idea that today you could cook your own food.” There were sounds of confusion from the crowd until N.V. yanked away one of the cage covers with a flourish, revealing that there was a lobster inside. He continued, “You just put them in the steamer and press go. They’ll be ready in a few minutes.”

                Marcoh walked up to one of the cages and took out a lobster. As Amestris was a landlocked country, lobster was a rare treat – even when there wasn’t a Civil War going on. The woman next to him did the same and then hesitated.

                “This is cruel,” she said. “It’s not even going to make the lobster taste better; the pain will cause its muscles to tense, making them tough. It’s just cruelty for the sake of cruelty.”

                N.V. was near enough to hear. He made his way over. “Would you like to tell that to Chef Tony?” N.V. gestured, and Marcoh got a glimpse of Chef Tony by the door to the kitchens. He was a fat, bald man with an especially wide mouth.

                “I would,” said the woman, and N.V. led her into the kitchens. Marcoh plopped his lobster into the steamer and turned in on. The lobster made disconcerting sounds for a few minutes – Marcoh knew it was the expanding air bubbles escaping the shell – and then Marcoh had delicious lobster.

                As they were heading back into the conference, Marcoh found N.V. walking beside him.

                “So what did Chef Tony say to that woman’s complaints?” Marcoh asked, conversationally.

                “What woman?” N.V. asked.

                “That woman you took to see Chef Tony,” Marcoh clarified. “The one who thought the lobsters were cruel.”

                “Did you think the lobsters were cruel?” N.V. asked.

                “I thought that the lobsters were really good dipped into the butter provided,” Marcoh answered.

                “Well,” N.V. said, “I didn’t take any woman to see Chef Tony. It must have been someone else at the conference.”

                Marcoh frowned. He was fairly certain it had been N.V. He tried to look around to see the woman, but he couldn’t spot her. Then the speaker was up on the stage to finish his lecture. At the end, there was a test on what the speaker had said. Marcoh read the first question.

                _As a State Alchemist, should you ever dispute the veracity of a statement your superiors give you?_

                He circled “NO” and moved on to the next question.

                The sixth conference was entitled The Ishvalan Question. Marcoh attended it for the additional research money, and wasn’t terribly surprised to find the conference devoid of scientific content. The speaker was from the social science fields, and he spent the first half of the conference discussing possible solutions to the Civil War.

                Marcoh only half listened. He was a doctor, not a mediator of peace. There was something about population control and something about prison camps for criminals, but Marcoh was mostly wondering what delights Chef Tony had prepared for lunch. As they finally broke for the meal, Marcoh found himself guilty hoping that there wasn’t going to be a test.

                Lunch, Marcoh discovered, was something called ikizukuri. It was a type of sushi – which Marcoh had heard of but never tired – except that the fish was still alive when served. N.V. explained that Chef Tony had encountered the recipe while traveling in the Far East.

                “Eat up,” N.V. encouraged Marcoh. “The best sushi is fresh, and there’s nothing fresher than when the meal is still alive, as Chef Tony always says.”

                Not wanting to insult Chef Tony’s work – and remembering the previous wonders that Chef Tony had produced – Marcoh took a bite.

                “It’s good!” he exclaimed.

                N.V. chuckled. “You sound surprised!”

                Marcoh flushes. “Sorry, sorry. It’s just different than what I’m used to. But I quite like it.”

                “Glad to hear it,” N.V. said.

                After lunch, the attendees returned for the rest of the conference. At first it was it was more of the same, but then N.V. interrupted the speaker.

                “You there!” he shouted. “I saw that.”

                Marcoh’s head swiveled around, and he saw that N.V. was pointing at Alan Rogers – the man who had been dismissive of phrenology several conferences back.

                “What I do?” Rogers demanded.

                “You threw a rock at the speaker!” N.V. positively screamed at Rogers. “You’re here in bad faith, aren’t you? You’re an anti-government agitator here to start trouble, no doubt!”

                “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Rogers said defensively.

                N.V. addressed the broader crowd. “You all saw, didn’t you? He threw a rock at our esteemed speaker. What a low down dirty trick!” There were murmurs of assent from the crowd. Marcoh – who was sitting further away from the stage this time – strained to see the rock on the stage. (Strained to see if there was a rock on the stage.) He was too far away to tell. He hadn’t seen Rogers throw a rock, but then again, he hadn’t seen Rogers _not_ throw a rock, either.

                “This is ridiculous,” Rogers protested.

                “Soldiers!” N.V. called, and three of the soldiers who lurked at the edges of the room came forward. One grabbed Rogers’ left arm, the second grabbed Rogers’ right arm, and the third began punching Rogers in the stomach. Rogers doubled over in pain, but the soldier continued his blows. Marcoh winced and looked away. So it was that he heard rather than saw Rogers be dragged out of the auditorium. Neither Marcoh nor any of the other attendees spoke up in Rogers’ defense, and none of them made any move to stop him from being physically assaulted and arrested.

                The speaker finished his speech, although Marcoh barely attended. As the conference ended, he was relieved that there hadn’t been a test. Later – much later, after he had run – he would think back and realize that not all tests were written.

                The last conference was entitled The Alchemic Solution, and Marcoh was curious to see what it would be about. As the attendees filed into the auditorium, Marcoh was struck by how empty the room seemed. From the initial group of hundreds, they had been whittled down to somewhere between two and three dozen. Some had been kicked out, a few had been arrested it, and many (Marcoh supposed) had simply not received an invitation somewhere along the way – or had and had chosen not to come.

                N.V. introduced the speaker, a middle aged man who launched excitedly into his speech. It was less about alchemy and more about policy, which made Marcoh wonder a bit about the title.

                “The solution to the Civil War is simple,” the speaker explained impassionedly, “You can’t have a war between Amestrians and Ishvalans unless you have both Amestrians and Ishvalans. Now, as Amestrians are the most genetically superior of people, there’s no doing away with us, I’m afraid.” There were some chuckles from the crowd at that. “But what if there simply weren’t any more Ishvalans?”

                Marcoh started to tune him out at that point. His rhetoric was rather extreme, but war brought out the jingoism in people, he supposed. Though it wasn’t just the speaker. When the Civil War had first broken out, people talked about it in terms of Loyalists versus Separatist. But as the years and the war had dragged on, more and more often people spoke of the war as Amestrians versus Ishvalans, even though there were Ishvalans in the military on the Loyalist side. Marcoh brushed his concerns aside. He wasn’t at the conference to debate semantics.

                There was a test at the halfway point to lunch. Marcoh looked at the first question:

_Are Ishvalans genetically less intelligent than Amestrians?_

                He absentmindedly circled YES and continued on with the test. Once everyone was finished, the tests were collected, and the speaker continued until they broke for lunch. N.V. pulled Marcoh aside before he could go into the cafeteria.

                “What is it?” Marcoh asked.

                “You failed the test,” N.V. told him. “You have to get 100% to pass, and you missed the last question.” He showed Marcoh his test. The last question was a Select All That Apply one.

                _Ishvalans are akin to the following:_

  1. _Rats_
  2. _Kittens_
  3. _Fish_
  4. _Bats_



                “You only circled ‘a’,” N.V. explained, “when you were supposed to circle ‘a’ and ‘d’. Weren’t you listening to the speaker?”

                “But bats are useful!” Marcoh protested. “They eat mosquitos and stop the spread of disease.” He felt really frustrated. He was about to be thrown out of the conference and lose out on the career opportunities and money promised. (Later, when he was traveling with Scar, he’d think back to the incident and hate himself for not objecting to the questions on the principle of them being untrue, racist claptrap.)

                “Oh,” N.V. said. “Here, how about this.” Taking out a pen, he circled ‘d’. “Just between the two of us, deal?”

                “Deal,” Marcoh said, relieved, and N.V. walked with him to the cafeteria. “And thanks.”

                “No problem,” N.V. said. “I see a bright future ahead for you.”

                “So what wonder has Chef Tony prepared for us today?” Marcoh asked.

                N.V. rubbed his hands together excitedly. “Ortolan!”

                “Isn’t that a little bird?” Marcoh asked.

                “Yep,” N.V. said. “You catch them alive and then poke out their eyes. That way, they think it’s always night and just eat and eat and eat.” Marcoh wondered if keeping the ortolan in a dark room would work, as well, but he didn’t want to offend N.V. or Chef Tony. N.V. continued his explanation. “Once they’re big and fat, you drop them in a vat of Armagnac, which drowns them and marinades them at the same time. You eat them by sticking the whole bird but the head and the feet in your mouth, and then you spit out the bigger bones.”

                “I’m looking forward to it,” Marcoh said, and Chef Tony did not disappoint.

                After lunch, the attendees did not return to the conference room. Instead, N.V. led them to another room, where there were massage beds and a number of masseuses. There was another woman there, in an elegant dress, who introduced herself as Solaris.

                “If you’ll all take your shirts off and chose a bed, you can get a delightful massage while I tell you about the wonderful career opportunities that away you at the Fifth Laboratory,” she said. Marcoh looked around the room and realized that the remaining attendees were now almost exclusively male. The two women who had made the final cut left their undershirts on for reasons of modesty.

                Marcoh took a bed, and one of the masseuses started on his shoulders while Solaris talked. They were going to have an opportunity to end the Civil War, she explained. They were going to use the souls of criminal Ishvalans to make weapons that could aid the Amestrian forces. It would be a State approved execution with an added bonus of the criminals making some amends to society before they died. They’d be heroes, she assured them.

                When the session ended, Marcoh put his signature down on the sign-up sheet. He wasn’t excited about killing people personally, but he couldn’t let himself get squeamish. There wasn’t a single attendee who didn’t take the job.

                Presidential Decree #306 went into effect two weeks later. Marcoh and his team – he learned that he’d scored the highest on all the tests, so he was put in charge – were all set up in the Fifth Laboratory by that point. Solaris had instructed Marcoh on the creation of a Philosopher’s Stone (which he’d dutifully record in his notes), and the team was ready for the first batch of criminals when they came.

                He told himself that Presidential Decree #306 didn’t concern him and that there wasn’t anything he could do about it. Solaris had assured him that they’d only be dealing with criminals who’d earned the death penalty with their vile deeds, and the death penalty predated Presidential Decree #306.

                Marcoh was horrified the first time he performed the human transmutation and made thirteen individuals into a Philosopher’s Stone, but he told himself that this was better than them going before the firing squad, since at least this way the State got a Philosopher’s Stone out of it. He tried not think about what Kimblee did with the Stone in Ishval.

                He stopped believing it was criminals they were using as human sacrifices when a group with children was brought in. That was the day Marcoh discovered something unpleasant about himself, which was that he was a spineless coward. Furthermore, he discovered that he could live with that revelation. He turned the group – children and all – into a Philosopher’s Stone out of fear that if he objected, it would be him in the circle.

                He had once believed that being evil took malice, but he found that he could do the work of the Devil just as easily with only yellow in him. In the end, it wasn’t bravery but despair that led him to run. He was in Solaris’ office one day giving his report when he happened to glance at a map of Amestris on her wall and saw that there were points marked on it. He was skilled enough in alchemy to fill in the blanks and notice how oddly circular the country was.

                So one day, he took a Stone with him rather than checking it in. He stole his research, emptied his bank account, and picked a place on the map at random to move to. He started working as a doctor in the town for free, and tried to use that to stave off the guilt, which was so much worse once he got away from Central and the Fifth Laboratory. In the small town in the middle of nowhere, there were no more monetary payments and fine meals and massages to distract him from the guilt.

 

_Back in the Present…_

 

                Marcoh lay in his bed in the prison cell, feeling wretched. A little flattery was all it had taken for him to swallow every lie they’d told him. Some nice lunches, and he’d cast aside his ethics. He thought of the money he had made from the State. That was the price of his soul. It seemed a paltry sum. He’d had dozens of chances to walk away, and he hadn’t because he’d lacked even a modicum of conviction or bravery or good sense. He hadn’t even wondered that he’d created far more Philosopher’s Stones than there were State Alchemists. To top it all off, he couldn’t even atone the way Scar had told him to. Marcoh rolled over on his side and eventually drifted off into a troubled sleep.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

                Scar met Marcoh, Wei, and Jael early the next day at the hospital.

                “What did you find out?” Scar asked.

                Marcoh fiddled with his hands. “The construct body has a respiratory system. The digestive system is there, actually, although a little atypical. The nervous system is incomplete, but we can expand on what’s there. Winry stopped by yesterday, and she had some ideas about that. We’ll make the new bodies with two eyes, of course, and Jael had some ideas about how to shape the features, so they can look like their old bodies. And Wei speculated that he’d be able to introduce a sleep state, so that they’ll be able to rest and dream. We’re still working on how to separate the souls in the Stones without killing them and how to contain them in bodies, but we’ve only just begun the examination there.”

                “So what’s the problem?” Scar growled.

                “Oh, Scar,” Marcoh said, the truth coming out in a rush, “there’s no reproductive system.”

                “So they won’t be able too…?”

                “They’ll be sterile,” Marcoh said bluntly. “I can’t make an egg or sperm that carries an individual’s specific DNA sequence if I don’t know their specific DNA sequence. Once we know each individual’s sex, we’ll be able to modify their bodies to have the appropriate genitalia, but they’ll never be able to have children.”

                “I see.”

                “I’m sorry,” Marcoh burst out. “I can’t make them as good as they were before I…. before I made them like this. I’ll accept any punishment. I’m sorry.”

                Scar sighed. “You’re already serving a life sentence. Besides, I can’t blame you for failing to do the impossible. Just let me know when you make further progress.” He told Jael and Wei to keep up the good work and left.

                “Well, you grovel nicely,” Wei remarked, after Scar had left.

                Marcoh massaged his temple. “Scar saved me. I’m indirectly responsible for the death of most everyone he knew and loved. I hate disappointing hm.”

                Wei nodded. “It’s like that in Xing. I’ve heard that if you meet the emperor – which I’ve never had the honor of doing, of course – you bow down and kiss his feet. Because he’s a god, you know? But mostly people meet the emperor if they want something or have messed up big time.”

                “That’s exactly it,” Marcoh said. He paused and then continued, “I know it comes from weakness, but I like it when I’ve accomplished something and lessened Scar’s burden in life a little. I don’t mind showing humility – Scar deserves that from me – but I feel absolutely wretched when I’ve failed him.”

                “You’re not worthy to lick Master Ezekiel’s boots,” Jael sniffed.

                “I know,” Marcoh agreed.

                Wei cast a glance at Jael. “And what part of Mr. Keystone are _you_ worthy to kiss?” he teased. Jael and Wei were both in the Classical Ishvalan language class that Scar taught. Wei had reported to Marcoh that he didn’t know how Jael was passing, given the amount of time she spent gazing adoringly at their instructor.

                Jael’s face went hot. “That’s an improper question!”

                “You know he and Major Miles are an item, right?”

                “I’m very happy for them,” Jael said, “but I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

                “Isn’t he a bit old for you, anyway?”

                “Not by much!” Jael protested before adding, “And I still don’t know what you’re talking about. Now shouldn’t we be getting to work?”

                Get to work they did, and they spent the next three weeks working on the patients. They ran tests and performed examinations and built prototype bodies. Nevertheless, none of them knew how to split apart a Philosopher’s Stone in such a way that each individual soul could be captured in a construct body. They didn’t even have any real workable ideas, and even if they did, they couldn’t test them without risking the destruction of the test souls.

                In addition to studying the patients, the team was also tasked with carrying for the patients. Although the patients did not sleep, their room had a bed with a soft comforter and a full pillow, as well as a window with bars, a table with a pot of flowers and some books on it, and a wall carpet across from the bed. With the lock on the outside of the door, it was a cell, but it was the nicest cell they could manage.

                Marcoh was responsible for feeding the patients three times a day, which was done with a feeding tube. Jael bathed and dressed them in fresh clothes every morning, and Wei carefully brushed the patients’ remaining teeth.

                After another fruitless day, Jael lingered behind after Wei had left. Marcoh could see that she had something she wanted to say.

                “My aunt got sent to one of the camps,” she said. “Did I ever tell you that?”

                “No, I don’t believe so,” Marcoh said.

                “An Amestrian soldier got handsy with her daughter – my cousin, you know? – so my aunt picked up a rock and threw it at the soldier. Clocked him a good one, but she and her daughter both got arrested. She cut some sort of deal – never got the details – but my cousin got released. But my Aunt Deborah never came back. She…she was a sign language instructor for deaf children, and, and-” Jael was having difficulty speak. It was clear that she was holding back tears.

                “I… I believe I may recall her,” Marcoh said.

                “She could be inside that thing,” Jael said, struggling to compose herself.

                “She might not be,” Marcoh said.

                “Well, somebody’s aunt is!” Jael screamed suddenly. “We have to fix them. You- you’re supposed to be some sort of genius, right? Why can’t you fix them?”

                “I don’t know how,” Marcoh whispered. Jael turned on her heel and left. Marcoh decided to stay and get some paperwork done before heading back to his prison cell, if only to clear his mind, but soon found himself thinking back to his time in captivity in the tunnels underneath Central City.

  
_Over a Year Prior…_

 

                Marcoh was in the cell his former employers kept him in. He hadn’t seen anyone but his captors since being brought there. The two chimeras in the room stared balefully at him. The door opened, and N.V. came in. He laughed at the expression on Marcoh’s face and then shifted to usual form: that of a teenage boy with hair like a pineapple.

                “N.V. Envy. I should have figured that out earlier,” Marcoh said.

                “You should have, but for such a smart man, you’re awfully stupid.”

                “What is it that you want?” Marcoh asked as politely as possible. He didn’t want to anger Envy. There were hostages whose wellbeing was at stake.

                “Tomorrow’s the big day!” Envy said cheerfully. “You get to fulfill your purpose as our pawn!”

                “What do I have to do? No, I suppose you won’t tell me.”

                “Nope, nope,” Envy said, “You get to know.” Marcoh’s stomach plummeted. If Envy was telling him, it couldn’t be good.

                “So?” Marcoh prompted.

                “Did you ever meet the Dental Alchemist?” Envy began, “You know, old Tooth-Yanker?”

                “No, not personally,” Marcoh said, “although I’ve heard of him.”

                “Well, Toothy was a good pawn and for a sizeable sum of money, he performed human transmutation with an unbalanced equation for us.”

                “Human transmutation with an unbalanced equation?” Marcoh asked. “Wouldn’t there be a rebound?”

                “Yep!” Envy said. “Toothy told us all about it when he got back. The transmutation opened the Portal of Truth. He says he met some weird all-white guy who called himself the Truth, glimpsed all the secrets of the universe, and when he got back-”

                “-he’d lost something,” Marcoh finished. “I spoke with the Elric Brothers.”

                “Yes, yes, they have their place as well,” Envy said, “And so did Toothy. He lost his heart. We had a hell of a time keeping him alive until we could get him a transplant. Unfortunately, we can’t make use of him now.”

                “Why not? Did the transplant fail?”

                “Nah. You know that Ishvalan who’s been going around offing the State Alchemists? The one they’re calling Scar?”

                “Yes.”

                “He got to Toothy. A dead pawn is a useless pawn.”

                “Serves you right,” Marcoh said.

                “What was that?” Envy demanded. Marcoh trembled and looked down. Envy continued, “I’m sure that little town you were living in doesn’t need _all_ of its children. I bet we could find a nice little one, bring them here, and _make you watch_.”

                “No, don’t,” Marcoh pleaded.

                “Not good enough,” Envy hissed. “Say please.”

                “Please don’t hurt them,” Marcoh said promptly.

                “You have to apologize too,” Envy said. “Say you’re sorry for being a disobedient little worm.”

                “I’m sorry for being a disobedient little worm,” Marcoh said.

                “And tomorrow you’ll be a good little pawn and open the Portal of Truth for us, right?”

                “I’ll be a good little pawn and open the Portal of Truth for you.”

                “All right. You’re forgiven.” There was a pause. “You’re not very grateful, are you?”

                “Oh!” Marcoh said. “Thank you for forgiving me. You’re very merciful.”

                “Good,” Envy said, finally satisfied. He stayed in the cell another hour, going over how to perform the transmutation with Marcoh before leaving. His parting words were, “You’re Toothy’s replacement. We’re counting on you, Dr. Marcoh.”

                Fifteen minutes later, Scar dropped into the cell and rescued Marcoh from the pits of despair.

 

_Back in the Present…_

 

                “Marcoh? You’re still here?”

                Marcoh’s head come up with a start. Mistress Shan had come into the room. He glanced at the clock on the wall. He’d gotten lost in thought and lost track of time.

                “Oh no,” he said. “This isn’t good. I’m never going to get back to the prison in time.”

                “Why don’t I give you a ride?” Mistress Shan offered.

                “Thank you so much,” Marcoh said as he followed Mistress Shan out of the room. They headed for the hospital garage, where Mistress Shan kept her motorcycle. It had been a donation from Fort Briggs. It was designed for snow but worked well enough on sand and paved road. It was also hot pink.

                Years prior, when Major General Armstrong had first taken command at Fort Briggs, she’d placed an order of motorcycles for the troops. When they had arrived, it was discovered that while most of the motorcycles were the appropriate camouflage colors, one had been painted hot pink as a sexist joke. There had even been a gift tag on it that read _For Lady Armstrong_. Major General Armstrong had declared it unfit for use, as it would have endangered any soldier who used it. When the Ishvalan Reconstruction Project began, she had donated it to the cause. Mistress Shan had ended up in possession of it and Scar had modified it to work entirely based off of hand controls and to have two wheels in the back instead of one, as she walked with the assistance of a cane.

                When they arrived at the garage, Mistress Shan pushed the motorcycle out, clipped her cane to the side, and waited for Marcoh to climb up behind her. Then she tore off, driving through the streets of the new city. It was a beautiful desert night.

                “See you tomorrow,” she told Marcoh as he got off.

                “Yes,” he said. “Thank you again.” Then he scrambled for the entrance of the prison. “I’m not too late, am I?” he asked, when he saw the guard.

                “No,” said the guard, “although you’re cutting it very close. You have two minutes.”

                “I’m very sorry,” Marcoh said, entering his cell and shutting the door behind him.

                “God, you’re pathetic,” Kirchner said from the next cell. “I can’t believe someone so weak made State Alchemist.”

                Marcoh sighed. “Obedience to the law here isn’t the same thing as weakness,” he stated. After finishing his dinner – a stew consisting predominately of rutabaga and turnips, which was in sore need of an onion – Marcoh laid back on his bed and thought. He had an idea. It was going to be risky, but if he could be brave enough, he might just be able to pull it off.


	4. Chapter 4

                The next morning, Marcoh gathered Scar and Mistress Shan into an unused room in the hospital basement, where he explained what he wanted to do.

                “So let me see if I have this straight?” Mistress Shan asked, gripping her cane with both hands. “You want to strip naked and dance with the Devil?”

                “Not that sort of ritual,” Marcoh clarified. “It’s all completely scientific, if not fully understood, and I get to keep my clothes on.”

                “And you’ll be able to learn how to fix the Immortal Legion if you do this?” Scar asked.

                “Yes. That is the hope.”

                Mistress Shan sighed and looked from Scar to Marcoh and back to Scar again. “Is he going to be in one piece when this is all over?”

                It was Marcoh who answered. “Most assuredly not. I could die! That’s why I want Scar here when I do it. But I hope to survive it. Performing the ritual in a hospital will help there. And after some recovery time, I should be able to perform my duties as a doctor again.”

                “Well, I can’t fault you for honesty. And you really think this will help those poor trapped souls?”

                “I do,” Marcoh said firmly. “Everything I’ve heard from those who opened the Portal of Truth is that they glimpsed all the secrets of the universe. I want to use that to discover what I’m missing.”

                “Fine,” Mistress Shan said. “I’ll leave the alchemy to the alchemists.” She turned and left the room.

                “What will this create?” Scar asked.

                “Nothing,” Marcoh said. “I have no intention to creating a homunculus. I’m just opening the portal.” Creating a homunculus would open the portal, but it wasn’t a necessary component.

                “Are you sure?” Scar said. “I do not want you producing some poor abomination.”

                “I am sure.”

                “Then let’s begin.”

                “Wait,” Marcoh said. He thought of the Dental Alchemist and the heart he had lost. “If this _doesn’t_ work, I…” He didn’t finish his sentence. Both _I’m sorry_ and _Thank you_ seemed entirely insufficient.

                Scar nodded. “Yes, I’ll give you a moment to pray.”

                Marcoh had never been religious when he was younger, but Scar had descended from up high and rescued him from the lowest point in his life, so it was to Scar that he directed his silent prayer. _Please let this work._

                He hesitated, looking at Scar. He wanted to convey more than silent prayers. Scar had saved him and given him a chance to atone while shielding the hostages in the town Marcoh loved but had never returned to. During their travels, Scar had protected him and fed him and arranged for shelter. Scantly after meeting Marcoh, Scar hadn’t hesitated to use himself as a decoy so that Marcoh could travel to the North unnoticed. Then he thought of something Wei said and spoke, saying, “There’s one more thing I wanted to ask you.”

                “What is it?”

                “May I kiss your feet?”

                “What?”

                “May I kiss your feet?’ Marcoh asked again, and then added, “Please?”

                Scar gave him a confused looked and then said, “I suppose so. If you want.” He undid his sandals and slipped them off.

                Getting on his hands and knees, Marcoh first kissed Scar’s left foot and then his right foot. Then he kissed the left foot again, in a different spot. Then the right foot again, until he had covered Scar’s feet with kisses. Respect meant for an emperor. Deference worthy of a god. Marcoh did know what he wanted to convey; it simply was best done with actions instead of words. When he was done, he stood back up. Scar put his sandals back on.

                “Now, I’m ready,” Marcoh said.

                “And Miles is going to never believe me when I tell him about my day,” Scar said and then stepped back as Marcoh drew the human transmutation circle on the floor with a piece of chalk.

                What happened next what unlike anything Marcoh could describe with any justice. There was a white void and a door and a figure all in white with no features but a mouth.

                “You must be the Truth,” Marcoh said.

                “So you’ve heard of me,” said the Truth, “and you’re here not to create but to understand. Isn’t that correct, Alchemist?”

                “Yes,” Marcoh said. The door behind him opened and he was grabbed and then he saw everything. He tried to focus on the knowledge he was seeking, but it was overwhelming. The images and information came to him in flashes, gone quicker than a blink of an eye.

                He saw Winry attaching an automail arm to one of the patients at the hospital. He was Mistress Shan riding her hot pink motorcycle through desert dunes, crying with joy as she topped one dune, got air, and then landed coming down the other side to the dip. He saw an egg floating in a cup of water and Darius and Heinkel tossing Yoki back in the forth in the air between them and Miles passionately kissing Scar’s neck while his hand pushed Scar’s priestly robes down off his shoulder. He saw everything and he understood.

                Then he was back in front of the Truth. “So, Alchemist,” the Truth asked, “did you find what you were looking for?”

                “Yes,” Marcoh said. “Now comes the part where I pay the toll, huh?”

                “Oh, yes!”

                “So what do I lose? My spine?”

                “Once that would have been the truth,” the Truth said, “but now? You wanted to converse with the divine.”

                All of a sudden Marcoh was a back. Scar was looking at him in concern. Marcoh opened his mouth tell Scar that he had been successful, but something was wrong. No intelligible sound came out. His mouth tasted iron, and he was choking on something. He was dimly aware that he was bleeding as Scar grabbed him. He reached into Marcoh’s mouth and began trying to clear his throat. Then he switched to alternatively pounding Marcoh on the back and hitting him in the stomach. At that point, Marcoh came out shock and processed the excruciating pain in his mouth, which caused him to pass out.

                Marcoh didn’t know how much time had passed before he awoke, but he knew that he needed pen and paper, to capture what he had seen on the other side of the Portal of Truth before it fled his mind like the best dreams did in light of the morning sun. To his surprise, pen and paper were already beside him. He used shorthand to save time, covering the pages with notes, alchemic equations, and sketches of what he had seen. After he finished his last drawing, which showed Scar and Miles’ embrace, he set down his pen and laid back down.

                As he drifted in and out of a light sleep, he thought back to his travels with Scar. In the slums outside of Asbec, he’d been the “nice doctor” who’d treated patients for free. Although he knew it to be weakness, he’d enjoyed that. Then he and Scar had separated from the rest of the group, and in the slums outside of East City, Scar had told the Ishvalan community who Marcoh was.

                “He’s a former State Alchemist,” Scar had said bluntly. “He’s helping me as atonement. He has training as a doctor. He’ll treat anyone who needs it. You won’t pay him.”

                The adults had been cautious about him. The children had been terrified. State Alchemists were what they had nightmares about. There had been one little boy, about ten, who’d cut his arm badly enough to require stitches, but he was too afraid of Marcoh to let Marcoh get near him. When Scar heard what the problem was, he came over, picked up a rock, and destroyed it, turning it to the finest dust. The he placed his hand on the back of Marcoh’s neck.

                “Boy,” Scar said, “I can destroy him before he harms you. Let him treat you.” So Marcoh had given the boy stitches with Scar standing over him. Marcoh had been grateful to him for that. Even when he didn’t get to be the “nice doctor”, it was good to be able to help, and that was worth doing so under the threat of destruction.

                In the hospital, Marcoh sat up with a start. Something had been destroyed. He had paid the toll. He looked at his body. He had all his limbs that he could see, and therefore he also had his eyes. He saw the Dr. Hirsch was in the room, looking at the notes Marcoh had written.

                “Blerg,” Marcoh said when he tried to ask what had happened.

                “Oh, no,” Dr. Hirsch said, “none of that. No talking until it’s healed. Otherwise it’ll just start bleeding again.”

                Marcoh looked at her in confusion.

                “We gave you a sedative,” Dr. Hirsch explained, “so I guess you’re probably still groggy. Well, I guess I get to be the one to tell you then. I won’t even begin to understand what you and Scar were doing down there in the basement, but you don’t have a tongue anymore.”


	5. Chapter 5

                As soon as Dr. Hirsch told Marcoh that he no longer had his tongue, Marcoh tried to move his tongue. That led to Dr. Hirsch yelling at Marcoh not to do that, lest he opened up his wound and cause the bleeding to start again. Nevertheless, it had been enough to confirm to Marcoh that his tongue really was gone.

                Dr. Hirsch gave Marcoh time to process what had happened and then returned with a feeding tube. “You know what this is? And nod or shake your head! Don’t try to speak.”

                Marcoh nodded. After all, he’d been using one to feed the patients. The thought hit him with a jolt. He needed to feed the patients. He tried to get out of bed, only for Dr. Hirsch to push him back. She handed him a pen and paper.

                NEED TO FEED PATIENTS, he wrote.

                Dr. Hirsch shook her head. “No can do. You’re assistants will just have to do it. They’ve been informed of your condition.”

                WHAT ABOUT THE PRISON? Marcoh wrote. He wasn’t sure of the time, but when evening rolled around, they’d be expecting him back.

                “You’ve been officially checked into the hospital as a patient,” Dr. Hirsch told him. “The prison has been informed. You can go back there once you can eat and drink unassisted. We’ll start on that after we get some nutrients in you.”

                She approached him with the feeding tube, and Marcoh quailed.

                “Uh uh, none of that,” Dr. Hirsch rebuked, “most of my patients had to learn how to do this while living in the slums. You get a nice, clean hospital. And at least you still have your teeth. Did you know that that sick bastard would deliberately leave the nerves intact? So stop bellyaching and open wide.”

                Chastised, Marcoh laid back, opened his mouth as wide as he could, and allowed Dr. Hirsch to slowly slide the feeding tube down his throat. The food the Briggs soldiers prepared didn’t taste any better in mush form. He wasn’t sure how one managed to get macaroni and cheese to taste like Brussel sprouts, but the Briggs soldiers had managed. Once he had consumed enough nutrients to satisfy Dr. Hirsch, she removed the feeding tube and made him practice swallowing water without asphyxiating on it.

                The way it went was that she would give Marcoh a small cup with a tiny bit of water and have him attempt to swallow it. He’d invariably begin to choke on it, at which point Dr. Hirsch would pound on his back until his throat had cleared. After three attempts, he shook his head when she presented him with the small cup.

                “No?” she asked. “Oh, would prefer to die of dehydration?”

                Marcoh shook his head.

                “Ah,” Dr. Hirsch said, “you think you can just get your nutrients from a feeding tube for the rest of your life, do you? There aren’t any other patients in need of that bed after you’re through with it?”

                Guilt overwhelmed Marcoh. He wrote I’M VERY SORRY on his notepad and held out his hand for the cup. Dr. Hirsch handed it to him, and he nearly asphyxiated on it again. Eventually, though, Dr. Hirsch was satisfied with is progress and left him to rest.

                A short while later, Scar came to visit him. He looked at the notes Marcoh had written uncomprehendingly.

                “What’s this?” Scar asked, showing the notes to Marcoh.

                SHORTHAND, Marcoh wrote.

                “Thought it was chicken scratch,” Scar said. “What’s it say?”

                DON’T KNOW, Marcoh wrote.

                “You don’t remember what happened?” Scar asked.

                SOME, Marcoh wrote. HAZY. BITS AND PIECES. WEIRD.

                Scar turned a page of the notes and came across the sketches Marcoh had made. He made a choking sound. He held up the sketch of him and Miles.

                “What’s this?”

                All of a sudden, Marcoh remembered. It wasn’t everything, but it was enough.

                IMPORTANT, he wrote on his notepad. He tried to figure out how to explain it on the limited space he had to write on. YOU LET HIM IN.

                “Uh…” Scar said.

                EMOTIONALLY, Marcoh added.

                “Yes, that, too,” Scar agreed.

                KISS = EGG = YOKI = BIKE = ARM, Marcoh wrote. Scar looked at it and then at the pictures.

                “What does that mean?” Scar asked.

                I KNOW HOW TO FIX THE IMMORTAL LEGION, Marcoh wrote and was treated to a ghost of a smile from Scar. Marcoh beamed back at him. Now he just had to get better. Getting better continued with Master Isaiah, who visited Marcoh next. He brought a stack of workbooks with him.

                “Good afternoon, Dr. Marcoh,” Master Isaiah said, setting the workbooks down. “I’ve enrolled you in my sign language class. This semester has already been going for two weeks, so you’ll have to play catch up, but I thought it best to get you started as soon as possible. I’ve cleared everything with the prison and the hospital. The class is at ten every morning. These workbooks will help you get caught up.”

                THANK YOU, Marcoh wrote. Master Isaiah had always been incredibly gracious to him; he gathered it was because Marcoh was the first State Alchemist whose life Scar had ever spared.

                “You’re welcome,” Master Isaiah said. “This will be a good experience for you; it will allow you to be a better doctor.”

                It was a month before Marcoh was able to return to the prison at night or get properly back to work. Even then, Dr. Hirsch had gotten his scheduled changed, so that rather than eat breakfast and dinner at the prison, he ate it at the hospital. First, Dr. Hirsch would insert the feeding tube and pour sustenance down his throat, and then she would make him practice consuming first liquids and then later solids without it. She managed a delicate balancing act. Too little sustenance from the feeding tube, and he wouldn’t have the energy to practice learning to drink and eat on his own. Too much sustenance, and he wouldn’t have the motivation to practice, as it was an exceedingly difficult task. It left him perpetually on the cusp of hunger, and he reflected that his life was entirely in her hands. He was grateful that Dr. Hirsch handled his life better than he had all the lives that had been in his power.

                “A patient’s a patient,” she had said briskly after he had conveyed this to her. “Doctors don’t get to pick and choose. If someone’s in need, you give them care.”

                While recovering, he was able to communicate briefly with Jael and Wei to get them started on their next task of restoring their 144 patients. (Master Isaiah had also encouraged Wei to take the sign language class, but he was in a different session than Marcoh. Jael had taken the course in the previous semester and now took an advanced course in the evenings.) Otherwise, though, Marcoh focused on learning the sign language as quickly as possible from the workbooks.

                The first night Dr. Hirsch let him go back to the prison at night, Kirchner exclaimed when he saw Marcoh be brought in. “You’re alive! I thought they executed you. What happened?” Marcoh was unable to reply, so eventually Kirchner gave up, saying, “Fine! Give me the silent treatment. See if I care.”

                The next morning, Marcoh showered, dressed, and headed to the hospital, where he spent an hour and half with Dr. Hirsch, for feeding tube time, drinking & eating practice, and tooth brushing. (Without his tongue, tooth brushing was another task that was much more difficult, and Dr. Hirsch was not yet satisfied enough with Marcoh’s progress to allow him to do it on his own.) After that, he headed over to the Temple for his sign language class. Finally, Marcoh was able to return to working with his team.

                “You look like shit,” Wei said when he saw him. The recovery effort had cost Marcoh quite a bit of weight.

                “Is it true that you kissed Scar’s feet?’ Jael demanded at almost the exact same time.

                Marcoh nodded his head, and Jael’s eyes went wide.

                “You kissed his “feet”?” she asked, again, putting air quotes around the word this time.

                Marcoh looked at her in confusion and then patted his right thigh, which mean _foot_.

                “Oh,” Jael said, flushing.

                Wei laughed. “I’m sure Major Miles was okay with Marcoh doing that,” he assured Jael. “Speaking of Mr. Keystone and Major Miles…” He held up the sketch Marcoh had done of Scar and Miles.

                Marcoh hesitated, trying to think how best to convey it. He brought his fists together, tapping just the knuckles of his two index fingers together. _Connection_. He brought his two hands down in front of him, elbows bent and palms flat. _Body_. He brought his right hand up to his chest and then opened his fist, like he was releasing something. _Soul_. There were facial expressions he was supposed to make with each motion, but the scarring on Marcoh’s face meant that he had trouble with that.

                “Yes, but how?” Jael asked.

                Marcoh looked through his notes until he found the equation. He wrote it out again on a different piece of paper, not using shorthand this time. Then he smiled.

                “Oh!” said Jael and Wei together when they saw it.

                There was a great deal of work to do after that. They had to make a dozen bodies to hold the dozen souls trapped inside one of the Philosopher’s Stones contained within the patients’ body. Out of caution, they were starting with only one Stone.

                Each body then had to be prepped to hold a soul. This meant etching tiny alchemic equations on the walls of a container deep inside of the construct bodies. It would be like an egg floating in a cup of water or Yoki thrown in the air only to be caught and thrown again. The alchemic equations would prevent the body from rejecting the soul while also allowing it to interface with the body, in the same way that Winry could get an automail arm to interface with the rest of a patient’s body. Then the body and soul – together but not quite touching – could ride together, like Mistress Shan on her motorcycle across the dunes. It was like Miles kissing Scar’s neck. The trick was simply to get the body to accept the soul within it, holding it snuggly and working with it instead of against it.

                Then they had to build an apparatus to capture and transfer the souls once the Stone was separated into its individual pieces. They filled a work room with a mass of tubes and valves. There were twelve chairs, one for each of the bodies. They connected to the back of the neck.

                The final trick was to carefully extract one of the Philosopher’s Stones from the patients’ body. Jael performed the surgery while Marcoh and Wei held the patient steady. They had applied a local numbing agent to prevent the patients from feeling pain, but they were aware that they were removing one twelfth of the patients’ souls, and that was an entirely new experience.

                As Jael extracted the Stone, the patients’ single eye closed as the body went limp. Marcoh, Wei, and Jael stared at them with baited breathes until the patients’ eye opened again and their breathing returned to normal. With that, all that was left was to begin.


	6. Chapter 6

                When the big day came, the work room of Marcoh’s team was crowded with people. Amidst the soul-capturing apparatus and the twelve chairs stood Mistress Shan, Scar, Major Miles, Master Isaiah, a few members of Scar’s alchemy class, and several other notable members of the community. Marcoh prepared the Philosopher’s Stone. It sat on a small dais in the middle of the room. Twelve tubes leading to the twelve chairs were connected to it via copper wiring. Elsewhere, Jael and Wei did a last minute check on the patients to make sure they were comfortable and then joined the rest in the work room.

                The twelve construct bodies had already been placed on the twelve chairs. After some introductory comments, Marcoh asked for quiet. Wei and Jael performed last minute checks on everything and then gave Marcoh the thumbs up. He put his hands together in a praying motion and then touched them both to the Stone. There was a flash of light, the Stone began to disintegrate while the copper wires glowed, and then all there was to do was wait.

                There was silence in the room and then collective inhaling of breaths as the first of the construct bodies begin to twitch. The arms flailed and the eyes shot opened. Wei moved swiftly to disconnect the body from the chair. The individual stood up, stumbled forward. Wei caught the individual’s arm and held the individual steady.

                The individual’s eyes scanned the room wildly, and the individual’s mouth opened and closed several times before coherent words came out.

                “I… I… I…” the individual sputtered, eyes going from the individual’s arms to the individual’s legs. Finally, the individual managed a full sentence. “I can talk! I can talk! It’s just me, and I can talk!” Then the individual’s eyes focused on Marcoh. “You! You’re that bastard who had me put in that circle! I almost didn’t recognize you, but it’s you, isn’t it?”

                Marcoh nodded. He raised his right hand in a fist and moved it in a small, clockwise circle in the center of his chest. That meant _I’m sorry_.

                “Oh, you’re going to be sorry all right,” the individual began and then stopped. “You sign in Ishvalan?”

                Marcoh nodded.

                “Where am I? What’s going on?”

                Jael stepped forward. “You’re in Ishval. We’re rebuilding it, and we’re rebuilding you. The body you have is a construct. It’s not perfect – and it will never match the body you had – but once we know what you are supposed to look like, we can make the appropriate modifications.”

                The individual stared at Jael. “Jael! Oh, sweet Ishvala, Jael! It’s me! Your Aunt Deborah!”

                “Aunt Deborah?” Jael asked, tears welling at the corner of her eyes.

                Aunt Deborah stepped forward in a rush, walking and standing on her own legs in order to wrap Jael up in a hug. While the two women embraced, the other patients began stirring. Marcoh and Wei began moving about the room, releasing the patients from their chairs, helping them to their feet, and reassuring them the best they could.

                As Marcoh passed Scar, he brought his right hand up in his fist and his left hand down with the palm open and fingers sprayed, closing his left hand into a fist at the last moment, so it was like he was holding an invisible broom. He did this three times in quick succession. _Success! Success! Success!_

                Scar grinned. “Yes, you did good today, Doctor. Now you just need to do it eleven more times for the first set of patients that were brought in. And then there are another twenty-five members of the Immortal Legion that need to be restored.”

                He did the math in his head quickly. That came to 3744 souls in all. He beamed happily as the team moved on to taking down personal information for the first twelve, so that their bodies could be properly modified and so they could be reunited with any loved ones that were still alive.

                Hands flat, Marcoh held his right hand above his left hand and then slid them away from each other. Then he brought his right fist up and touched his thumb to his cheek. Then he twisted it into a thumbs up sign. _We’ll begin tomorrow._

                Scar nodded and moved on to where Wei, Jael, and Aunt Deborah were at. He addressed the first two, “You exemplify the best of what our community has to offer. Ishvala smiles upon you this day. With doctors like you, our future is in good hands.” Jael was in such a daze afterward that Aunt Deborah began to be concerned before Wei assured her that she just need a bucket of cold water dumped on her, which caused Jael to rouse enough to glare at him.

                Scar smiled at them and then moved over to where Miles was at. Miles had also lost his stoicism in the face of triumph. He joyfully gave Scar a side hug and a peck on the cheek.

                The rest of the day went by in a whirl. A couple of sketch artists were brought in. They sat with each of initial twelve and drew pictures of what their old bodies had looked like. Then Marcoh, Jael, and Wei set to work, using alchemy to modify the construct bodies in the closest approximation that they could manage.

                While that was going on, Scar, Miles, and Master Isaiah offered to catch the initial twelve up on what they had missed in the past seven years. The plan was for the initial twelve to spend at least a few nights at the hospital. Several members of Scar’s alchemy class set to work on constructing homes for the initial twelve, and some of the soldiers Miles had trained worked to get the initial twelve set up in their desired careers.

                By time Marcoh finished dinner and eating practice with Dr. Hirsch and return to his prison cell, he was exhausted but happy. Twelve souls had been restored to bodies. Scar had been pleased with his work to the point that he’d smiled and actually called Marcoh a doctor. Marcoh wanted to savor the day. He smiled to himself. There were 3732 more souls he was going to be able to help restore. It wouldn’t undo what he’d done, but it would be positive action he could take in the world.

                “What are you so happy about?” Kirchner demanded when Marcoh came in. Marcoh didn’t think Kirchner actually expected an answer; the guards he previously explained to him that Marcoh had lost his tongue.

                As it was, Marcoh really wanted to tell him – he really wanted to tell everyone – so he signed to the guards. He brought his hands with fingers sprayed up to neck height and then moved them outward. _Am I allowed…?_ He frowned. He didn’t know the sign for alchemy. First he made the prayer motion with his hands, but the guard misunderstood. So instead he mimed drawing a circle on the floor with his foot. Understanding dawned on the guard’s face.

                “What for?” the guard asked.

                Marcoh held up his right hand in front of his mouth with his thumb, index, and middle finger extended. He moved it in tiny, clockwise circles and then jerked his thumb at Kirchner. _I want to talk to Kirchner._

                “Sure,” said the guard, “but please be careful. Don’t do anything that would allow him to escape or provide him with a weapon.”

                Marcoh brought his left arm up, fist loosely closed and wrist limp. He touched his right cheek with his right hand, where only his index finger was out. As he brought his right hand down, he stuck out his middle finger as well and tapped the base of his right palm against the back of his left hand. Then he brought his right hand away, only the index finger extended again. _I’ll be careful._

                Walking up to the sandstone wall that separated Marcoh’s cell from Kirchner’s cell, Marcoh brought his hands together in a praying motion and then touched the wall, so that words appeared on Kirchner’s side.

                I DID SOMETHING GOOD TODAY, Marcoh wrote.

                “Ah, man, alchemy?” Kirchner complained. “You’re allowed to do alchemy?”

                WHAT IS MORE IMPORTANT IS THAT I’M ALLOWED TO ATONE, Marcoh wrote, erasing his initial words to give himself space to write more.

                “I’ve got nothing to atone for,” Kirchner said.

                Marcoh sighed. There were layers to Kirchner’s evil, just as there had been layers to Marcoh’s evil. It never started with an alchemist walking in off the street and getting a job at the Fifth Laboratory. He’d had to be willing to accept lies from authority figures in exchange for money. He’d had to be willing to believe that it was right to do evil unto evil while puffing up his arrogance that he was among the best and smartest and most righteous. Since fleeing the Fifth Laboratory seven years ago, he’d been working to unlearn everything that had led him morally astray, and he was still unlearning. Kirchner had a great deal to unlearn, as well.

                THE STATE ALCHEMIST LIFE-STYLE IS PLEASURABLE, Marcoh wrote, BUT REPETENCE IS EVEN BETTER, BE IT THROUGH A HARD PATH.

                “Ha!” said Kirchner.

                WHY DO YOU DOUBT ME? Marcoh wrote, I’VE SEEN BOTH. MY HANDS AREN’T RESTRAINED LIKE YOURS ARE. YET I’M HERE.

                “It’s ‘cause you’re a pussy,” Kirchner said without hesitation.

                Marcoh smiled to himself. Getting Kirchner to repent wasn’t going to be an easy task, but he was now away from the privileged lifestyle that the lies he ascribed to had been maintaining. Plus, they were serving a life sentence in adjoining cells. Marcoh had the rest of his life to get through to him. Marcoh put his hands together and then touched the wall again.

                IT WOULD BENEFIT YOU TO DEVELOP A CONCEPT OF MASCULINITY NOT CENTERED AROUND AGGRESSION AND MISOGYNY.


End file.
